


Let The Drum Beat Drop

by Jenwryn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alley Sex, Always a girl, F/M, Genderswap, adrenaline made them do it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-29
Updated: 2011-05-29
Packaged: 2017-10-19 21:30:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/205409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenwryn/pseuds/Jenwryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She hadn't thought that Sherlock did this kind of thing. She had known that she didn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let The Drum Beat Drop

**Author's Note:**

> In which this always-a-woman version of girl!John is nicknamed 'Jack'. Okay?
> 
> Title comes from [I Am Not A Robot](http://youtu.be/WE5nW0vaQ8I), by Marina And The Diamonds.

The wall hadn't been that close a second ago, Jack is sure of it, but she doesn't much care, not right now, not even if the bricks are digging into her back, not even if there's blood on her shirt, not even if the air is tight and cold around her face because, Christ, Sherlock's shoulders are dark against the London sky, as he leans in towards her and, _fuck_ , that's Sherlock's mouth on hers.

Sherlock kisses like he does everything else. With fine attention to detail. And with wilful abandon.

Jack reaches up, shoves her hands into his hair. His curls snag on her broken nails, and she bites down on his lip just to taste blood that isn't her own.

Sherlock hisses, and drags his hands up her body, pressing closer; stupidly tall, stupidly possessive, and stupidly, stupidly welcome.

Half an hour ago, just half an hour ago, Jack had been tearing her wrists against handcuffs. Half an hour ago, she'd been biting back rage and tears. Eight minutes ago, though, she'd been gazing at Sherlock, silhouetted in the doorway of the warehouse where she'd been held captive, her own gun held firmly in his hand, and his voice – his stupid, stupid voice – purring through her despite the pain and anger. Sherlock, come to save the day. Sherlock, come to rescue her. Sherlock, come to solve a case, but making her somehow feel as though it's so much more than that – as though he doesn't do this for just anyone – as he lifts her gun and fires it, point-blank, into the face of one of her captors.

She doesn't say a word, when the front of the man's face meets the back of his head.

Doesn't so much as flinch.

Jack tells herself it's just the relief of seeing Sherlock. Just the relief of getting out of that hellhouse, with its filth, and its filthy little men – filthy little men who'd been smart enough to work out that they'd have to be proactive on abusing her, to avoid her abusing them instead. She tells herself, too, that it's just the rush of escape, or the rush, even – no point lying to herself about the obvious things – of seeing her gun, there, used, in Sherlock's hand. She tells herself it's just the buzzing knowledge that they've managed it, again; that they've won, again. That they've survived, again.

She'd tasted the bitterness of gunfire in her mouth, when Sherlock had shot a second time, and she hadn't felt a thing, when the dying man's insides had splashed across her shoes; not a thing, except the thrill of Sherlock's grey-blue gaze locking on hers. That, and the certainty that they needed to get out of there before the police turned up.

Sherlock had muttered something about the things one could do to corpses, and Jack had found herself laughing, as his deft touched worked upon her cuffs; laughing, so hard and long that it had made her body ache.

She'd told that him he really needs to get his own bloody gun, if he's going to take up this kind of thing as a hobby.

And now – and now – they're in a back street. Far enough away to be out of sight, but not far enough to soothe her protesting common sense. Just some street, some corner where the one undamaged light doesn't fully reach, and Sherlock's body is against hers.

Jack's hands are in his hair, are at his neck, are gripping at his stupid scarf and his stupid, marvellous coat. Jack's saying his name, over and over, in the snow storm that her mind has become, and she can't stop, even though she really, really wants to.

He has his fingers – so long and fine – on the marks the men have left against her, on the bruises and the welts. They'd focussed on her face, as if someone like her would really consider that worse than them having focussed anywhere else – she's not beautiful, she never has been, and she's a realist, and she's been to war, for Christ's sake, don't they do their research? – and Sherlock, Sherlock is glowering as though that was, indeed, the worse crime they could have committed.

His mouth joins his fingers in a dance of comfort-pain-exploration-wonder.

Jack's been telling herself for months that she really, really wasn't going to go there.

Besides, girlfriends? Not his area, remember?

Sherlock doesn't seem to remember right now, though, or perhaps he'd simply meant _dating_ , not _girls_ like she'd thought, and his whole body is against hers, making her feel small and sheltered in a way that makes her aches and hurts soothe until all that she can possibly dislike is the fact that she doesn't dislike it.

She should be in a hospital. She should, at the very least, be at home, having a slow and gentle shower, and then wrapping herself up in clean cotton sheets and trying to sleep.

She shouldn't be gripping her hands tighter into Sherlock's coat, pulling him even closer, as though she wants to crawl beneath his skin and see how his brain works from that side.

“Really bad idea,” she manages, against the underside of his chin. He pulls back at that, just a little, just long enough to make her body moan at the freezing air, and she realises that, honestly, the 'bad idea' part of the program had already taken place while she was busy clinging.

“Really bad idea?” Sherlock repeats, carefully, almost meekly, in that voice he uses sometimes – the one that means he might either genuinely want to know, or else be very good at providing the correct response (he can, when he puts his mind to it; Jack's seen it more than once). “Bad?” he muses, though his hands slide down her sides and grab hold of Jack's hips, and actively push her up the wall. Jack thinks she could shove him away, if she wanted to. She's not exactly meek and mild herself, and she's fought her fair share of arsewits in her time. She doesn't push him away, though, despite the fact that this really is a phenomenally bad idea, and her body hurts; instead, she pushes her hips against him, as he moves her upwards; she slides her legs around his body, beneath the open wings of his coat. She doesn't even know where they are, she honestly has no fucking idea, but the city is silent around them, and Sherlock's breath is hot against her, his lungs pressing against her chest, against her breasts, and she wonders if this is it, now; if this is what she's become.

She hadn't thought he did this kind of thing. She had known that _she_ didn't.

“Very,” she agrees, but one of her hands is moving downwards, awkwardly, sliding between their bodies, because she needs to know, needs to see, needs to reassure herself that the arousal in Sherlock's eyes isn't just her imagining, isn't just a trick of the light, isn't just him going through the perverse motions of this for some entirely bizarre Sherlock reason; nothing would surprise her, any more, and there are too many layers between them, and—

Sherlock bites back a noise, harsh against the roof of his mouth, as Jack gets her shoulder bent enough to slide her hand into his pants. She can feel him, growing firm, against the tips of her fingers. His hips jerk forwards, as though on default to her touch, and his eyes widen at that, more than anything else, she thinks. It makes her breath catch deep in her own lungs, or deep in her stomach maybe; makes her gasp out his name in a hitch. She strokes her thumb against him, then slides her other hand upwards, to cling to his shoulder; Sherlock moves them so that she could have felt him, even without her hand, pressed where she suddenly, definitely, wants to feel him the most.

“The rush,” Sherlock says, “it's the rush of it, in your body.”

“My body,” Jack repeats.

She's fucked in an alleyway once before, but she'd been young, and drunk, and she's neither if those anymore, at least, not now. The freezing air, whenever Sherlock moves his mouth away from hers, makes her lips sting. She's old enough to know better. She's old enough—

Sherlock says, “Jack,” like it's the key to open Pandora's Box, and that's the end of it. That's the end of rational thinking, and reasoning, and responsibility, and remembering that she's a doctor, respectable, in her thirties; the world slides down, until there's nothing but Sherlock. Sherlock, his skin pale in the light, his hands warm against her, and she pushes against him, testing the strength of his arms, of his body to hold her. She grins against his neck when he just hoists her higher and says, “You should know that I'm stronger than I look. I should take you boxing with me some time; see what you can do to the lightweights,” and he nips at her ear, and makes her tremble.

“Please,” she says, because she knows its what he wants to hear, and then it's all mouths and bodies, all shifting of clothes and sordid hurry, both their hands between them, unbalanced, ungainly, her already bruised body pushed too hard against unforgiving stone wall, and that's going to have scraped skin off, she thinks, that's going to need antiseptic on it, but his thumb is against her clit, not cautious, but real and there and whether he's done this before or not doesn't matter, whether this is his area or not doesn't matter, because he's learning her, learning her so quickly, and she twists her arm so she can touch him in return, clumsily angled, but that doesn't matter either, as they push and move and he lets out a moan, just one, just enough, and there's heat against her hand. He might say her name, then, beneath the bite of her teeth; his fingers push mercilessly against her, in her, curving up deep and wonderful, as his whole body stills and he comes, warm and wet, against her hand inside his pants.

“Sherlock,” she moans, almost whines, dragging her hand up his shirt, not caring if she drags semen with it, to push herself against him, and she's so close, so close, and—

He presses his face against her shoulder, body contorted, and shoves his fingers deeper, angling them, in and out and forth and back and then, and then, then she comes, her hands digging into his shoulders so hard it might bruise even though the coat, and her hips pressed so hard against him that, later, when she plays it over in her mind, she won't know how he held them both upright.

She sucks on his lip, hard, hard enough to taste the iron of his blood, again; to re-taste the rust of it, against her tongue.

He breathes her name against her teeth.

Somewhere, she can hear sirens. Somewhere, she can hear the city.

Somewhere, she's going to wake up and realise that she has bruises on her bruises, that she's fled a crime scene, that she's regressed and not regretted. Somewhere, but – but maybe not, as Sherlock touches at her face; touches at her breasts as he shifts her gently to her feet again. She puts her hands around him, can feel her gun at the small of his back, and the ground is steady beneath her feet.

“Your room or mine?” she asks.

Sherlock's smile is blazing.


End file.
